


laden with happiness and tears

by samariumwriting



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Developing Relationship, Friendship, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Optimistic Ending, Sylvain Jose Gautier is a Mess, The Great Fódlan Bakeoff (Fire Emblem), Trans Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:27:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26444872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samariumwriting/pseuds/samariumwriting
Summary: Sylvain feels pretty much like his life is over. Nothing ever changes, nothing ever moves or grows. That is, until he discovers a stranger living in his garden.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 12
Kudos: 47





	laden with happiness and tears

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for the Great Fodlan Bakeoff (2), which means I wrote to five prompts (explained at the end) and wrote this fic in 48 hours!  
> Thank you so much to Oliver (@nikobynight on twitter, Oliver_Niko on ao3), who beta read this fic! We did a beta reading trade for the bakeoff, so when he posts his work (also Sylvix!) please go check it out, it's amazing.

There's someone living in Sylvain's back garden. Specifically, they live in the treehouse at the bottom of the garden, hidden away from prying eyes.

It hasn't been used in six or so years. Maybe longer - sometimes these things blend into each other. Either way, it's been a long time, and Sylvain doesn't even know how the intruder knew the thing was there. Or how they snuck up there, when the ladder is long since gone, rotted away at some point and removed for some reason or another that definitely had nothing to do with Sylvain's broken arm aged twelve.

...Yeah, that's when the ladder was removed. So it's been twelve years. Yikes.

He has no idea why they're there. He barely even knows how he  _ knows  _ they're there - his parents don't seem to have noticed them, and they don't emerge from that space tucked in the tree. He supposes it's a place both his parents would rather forget.

Whoever it is probably thinks they're hidden well enough that Sylvain doesn't know they're there. No matter how long he stares up at the treehouse, they never appear. Sometimes he catches a flicker of movement through the windows, but nothing else. They don't interact with anyone, and it doesn't seem like they've stolen anything from the house.

It's strange. They just... live there, in the same way Sylvain lives in this house. There's no hidden organisation in the treehouse, as far as he can tell, and there doesn't seem to be a specific reason the person is there rather than in any other garden along this uniform street in a uniform suburb in a uniform town.

He can't exactly acknowledge their presence, at least not openly. He couldn't talk about it, because then his parents would know there was someone there. From then, something would happen to the person in the treehouse, or maybe to Sylvain, and then he'd never know why they were there. He couldn't do that.

He first catches a real glimpse of them at sunset. He just happens to glance out of his bedroom window to see a flash of their figure. Not tall, not short. Dark hair, dark clothes. Thin, and fast. They practically sprint across the sun bleached grass, ducking away from the orange light of evening into the dark shadows of the trees beyond.

And then they're gone, like a wraith, like they were never even there.

Sylvain feels glued to his window for the rest of the night. He watches the stars, fixes his eyes on each blade of grass in the garden. He counts every visible plank on the treehouse's walls, and then moves to tracing make-believe constellations in the sky. He just wants to get a look at them again. That's all.

Sylvain wakes at dawn with his head still propped against the cool glass of his window. There's a crick in his neck and his back feels stiff, and he knows he must have missed their return.

He doesn't know how he knows, but he does. They're still there in that treehouse. Not waiting for him, not at all, but they're there. Living. Mysterious.

Sylvain takes to watching out for them more. Pretty quickly, he works out that they only tend to leave at sunrise or sunset. He has no idea why, or what they're doing. He doesn't know anything about them at all, or how they're living there. He doesn't know their name, and beyond a brief glimpse of a jawline in the early hours of the morning he hasn't seen their face either.

He just knows they exist. So he watches them, again and again, trying to piece together their image in his mind. He finds himself wondering as he stares - what are they like? Do they smile? What colour are their eyes? Do they push their hair back from their face when nervous? Run their fingers through it when stressed?

Seeing them move, catching moments of their life going by before his eyes, day in and day out... Maybe it's the way the sky is always tinged with that melancholy feeling of wasted endings and unfulfilled beginnings when Sylvain sees them, but he can't help but feel like a failure when he watches them.

* * *

It's the middle of the night when Sylvain decides that enough is enough. The daylight bled away hours ago, and the rain comes down in sheets. It's cold in  _ his _ bedroom, let alone out there, and he has distinct memories of a leaking roof and damp socks on a spring afternoon. Whoever the person is out there, they shouldn't be sleeping in the cold and wet. No one should be.

He's stayed away for now, not wanting to risk their security, their place to sleep, but tonight the treehouse is neither of those things. It's just a health hazard for whoever's there, and he's not inclined to let them stay.

If he were a particularly smart person, he'd find some other way to do this, as compared to leaving the empty house and standing out in the rain. But Sylvain isn't feeling particularly smart that night, so without another moment for thought or doubt he pulls on his shoes (not even a coat, which he knows he'll regret even as he opens the back door) and goes out into the rain.

It pounds at his face and hair as he runs down the lawn to the treehouse. "Hey!" he calls. No movement. "I know you're in there! I'm not mad or anything, I'm not going to boost you out, but- can you just come in from the storm!"  _ I'm worried,  _ he doesn't say, because it's probably strange to be concerned about someone he doesn't know. It won't make whoever this is more inclined to accept.

Nothing. Just the continuous pouring of rain and Sylvain, shivering slightly already under the force of the wind. "I swear nothing bad will happen if you come out!" he calls again. Maybe they can't hear him? No, they have to be able to - he's as close as he can get without climbing the damn tree and there's no way he'll be able to do that.

Still nothing. For a moment, Sylvain entertains the idea that they're not there, but it doesn't set his mind at ease. If they're not here, they might have no shelter at all tonight, so he calls again. "It'll all be fine," he says. "I promise."

He doesn't know if the last words carry; water goes down his throat and he splutters out the end of his phrase. But there's a stir from within, and then...

No reply. Okay, desperately wet times call for desperate and equally wet measures. "And hey, if you don't want to walk in through the house or anything, that's okay! I'll just prop the window of my bedroom open and you can come in through that."

Bingo. It's too dark to see them properly, but a face appears at one of the treehouse windows. "What the fuck?" they ask, in a deep voice that carries clearly over the sound of the rain lashing down. Sylvain is cold, but even the sight of them sends a spark of excitement through him. "You're an idiot."

"Don't worry, I'm aware," he replies, and even though he can't see the expression on their face in the darkness, he definitely knows they're frowning at him.

"Don't do that. I'll come through the damn house if you're going to be so insistent about this." Their voice continues in a low growl, and Sylvain can only smile. Finally, he'll get to meet them properly rather than staring at them through his bedroom window like a creep.

"Great!" he says. "Come on down and we'll get you warm and dry in no time."

"We'll...?" Their tone is wary, and Sylvain doesn't know if they can see him, but he waves his hands around anyway.

"No, no, not like that," he says. "Figure of speech. Just me, no one else. Don't worry."

Silence for a moment, and then they nod. "I'm coming down," they say. "Just know I'm not... don't expect any payment from me. I have nothing to offer you."

They're suspicious, but Sylvain can understand. It's pretty weird for someone to just offer you somewhere to stay in the middle of the storm. "Of course!" he says, trying to make sure that they definitely know he's okay with that. He has no idea how he comes across in the middle of the night. "I don't want anything from you anyway. Just don't think you should be out here in weather like this."

Another few seconds pass, and with only the sound of the rain lashing down around him, Sylvain is sure nothing will happen. But then, finally, their body appears in the treehouse's doorway and they drop down to the ground.

It's dark, and Sylvain still can't make out what they look like, but he's in no hurry to find out. Soon enough, he'll get a much better look at them.

They hurry back up the lawn, and Sylvain opens the door with fumbling hands to get them back where it's dry. Once they're inside, he kicks his sodden trainers off, and the stranger pauses for a moment before doing the same. Their shoes are grimy.

"You might want to take your jacket off too," Sylvain suggests. They're wearing a dark hoodie, but under the light it's obvious that it's soaked through. They shake their head, and droplets of water hit Sylvain's face. Finally, he gets a proper look at them.

They're shorter than he thought, dressed in worn down clothes. Their hair, even though they were only out for a few moments, is plastered to their head from the moisture, and with how damp it is he can't tell if it's black or some other dark colour. They look up but avoid his eyes, and he sees thick lashes and honey-brown eyes.

Even with a scowl fixed on their face, they're striking at worst and beautiful at best, but Sylvain feels like saying it isn't the best idea. Most people don't like it when he does that.

"You're staring," they say, and Sylvain startles. He was, in fact, staring. Oops.

"Yeah, sorry," he says, his hand moving to rub the back of his head. It comes away even damper than before. "I just only ever caught a glimpse of you before. I was curious about how you looked."

"Well you know now," they say. They look thoroughly unimpressed, and Sylvain can't blame them. "Are you going to help me dry off or what?"

"Oh, yes, I am," he says, though he didn't actually prepare anything. He hurries to the bathroom, shrugging off his jacket as he goes and abandoning it in the laundry basket. He pulls a couple towels from the cupboard and re-emerges to find the stranger exactly where he left them. "You can make yourself comfortable, you know," he says.

"No I can't," they reply. "And I won't." Sylvain doesn't know what to do in response, so he just hands them a towel and starts drying himself off. He's doing his best, and what they decide to do about that is their own choice.

It's awkward, though. He's spent so long trying to work out what they're like that actually encountering them is... well, it's not disappointing, but Sylvain wishes he could do more. Instead, he finishes drying himself off and takes the towel from the stranger once they're done. Then he fetches some blankets and leads him upstairs.

"You can sleep on the floor or in the bed," Sylvain says. "Whichever you prefer." He tries his best to ensure that his tone is free of anything that could be misconstrued. He doesn't know if he succeeds, because they scoff and unceremoniously drop their blankets on the floor.

"I'm fine down here," they say. And then, without a moment's notice, they sit down and pull one blanket over them.

Sylvain tries not to laugh nervously. He thinks he succeeds, but something strangled  _ does _ leave his throat and the stranger looks at him with those brown eyes. They remind him of something. "Do you... want a pillow?" he asks.

"Hm," they say, lifting their head for a moment. "Sure. Hand one over." Sylvain does so, and then settles down himself. He wasn't sure what he imagined when he thought of inviting them in - if he imagined anything at all, beyond their safety and health for the night - but it definitely wasn't awkward towel drying followed by immediate sleep.

It's dark in the room. It's dark outside. Sylvain has nowhere to look, but he can  _ feel  _ the person on the floor in front of him. He can hear them breathing, and even though he knows he should just let them get some rest, he feels the need to say something. Anything.

"So, uh," he says, letting out a nervous laugh. "I'm Sylvain. It's... good to finally meet you?"

"I'm not giving you my name," they say. Their voice is somehow closer than Sylvain expects, or maybe it just feels close with how dark it is in here. How the whole world, in this moment, is just the two of them.

"That's fine," he says, maybe slightly too quickly. It  _ is  _ fine. He doesn't need to know their name. "Anything you can tell me?"

A pause. They take a deep, audible breath, and let it out almost as noisily. Then another, and another. Sylvain doesn't know what was wrong with his question, but they're clearly unnerved by it in some way. Or maybe just pissed off, and trying to convince themselves not to stab him.

Sylvain is about to open his mouth and take the question back when the heavy, carefully regulated breathing stops. He tenses, though in anticipation of what he doesn't know.

"I'm a man. As much as anyone is, anyway," the stranger says, which leaves Sylvain with more questions than answers.

"What do you mean?" He doesn't reply. He doesn't answer anything else, and eventually Sylvain gives in, closing his eyes in the darkness and hoping that the pattering of rain on the window will soothe him to sleep eventually.

When Sylvain wakes to sunrise streaming through his curtains, the man is gone. He hasn't taken anything with him, as far as Sylvain can tell. It's like he was never even there.

He was, though. Sylvain knows it, even though the whole night feels like something out of a dream.

* * *

From that night on, Sylvain feels a little bolder. It's unusual for him to leave his bedroom, let alone the house at all, but he'll make an exception for the strange man who lives in his garden. It becomes routine for him, whenever his parents are out, to throw on something presentable, grab a couple packets of food, and go to sit on the lawn.

He supposes it's a good job, really, that he never goes out and they try to avoid him as much as possible. If those two things weren't true, he wouldn't be able to spend so much time bugging him.

He calls up every time he goes out. "Hello!" he calls. "Me again!"

Usually, he doesn't answer. Sometimes he's there, sometimes he's not. Sylvain tends to know when he is - he can spot a twitch of movement hidden in the shadows, or hear the scrape of shoes against wood. Sylvain doesn't know why he avoids him some times and not others, but he doesn't provide an explanation and Sylvain doesn't ask for one.

This time, he answers. "Out in a moment," he calls. And then, just as he said, he appears within seconds.

"I brought some dinner," he says, waving the packaged sandwich in the air. It catches the light in a way that can only really be described as ugly, and Sylvain tries to ignore it. "You can have it if you come down."

With the stranger up for talking, the next part is inevitable, but Sylvain always tries to make it sound optional. A second later, he hops down from the treehouse and hits the grass with a quiet thud. He takes the food with only a moment's hesitation and sits, cross-legged, just a short distance away from Sylvain.

He always eats quickly, almost as if someone is going to take it away. Sylvain wouldn't take anyone's food away after they’ve already eaten some of it, but he supposes that's the point of getting to it so quickly. Sylvain can't help but wonder if he's hungry.

"How do you feed yourself, anyway?" Sylvain asks. He doesn't come down to see him every day, and even when he  _ does  _ visit, the stranger doesn't always respond. If he only gets food from Sylvain, he probably only eats once every four days or so.

He looks up from the rapturous attention he's granted his sandwich and shrugs. "I have my ways," he says, which answers exactly none of the question beyond the fact that he  _ is  _ feeding himself. Well, it's something, at least.

"That's unfair," he whines. He supposes the question isn't entirely innocent - he wants to know that whatever he does, it's safe.

"It's not unfair, just my business rather than yours."

"Fine, fine." He knows it's true; he has no right to know these things. While his life may slightly revolve around this man, his life definitely doesn't revolve around Sylvain. "Can I ask you something else?"

"It depends what it is." His words are accompanied by a small huff of amusement which makes something flutter in Sylvain's heart. He's pathetic.

"Will you come inside again?" he asks. Since that storm, he's invited him every time he sees him. He's sure the man knows by now that he's welcome, but that doesn't mean he's going to stop.

"No." He always refuses, and regret tinges the sky orange whenever he does. Or maybe that's just the sunset, and Sylvain is pretentious. Either way, it hurts.

* * *

Something changes, however, on a day that's pretty much the same as any other. Sylvain is in his room just like always, and when he glances up at the window... a dark blur, and the stranger is out of the treehouse and rolling onto the ground. It isn't sunrise or sunset; a departure from his usual routine.

A flare of something close to anxiety rises in Sylvain's chest, and within a moment he's out of his chair and racing down the stairs. He's out on the lawn within a second, watching the stranger dust grass off his trousers. "Everything alright?"

He looks strange, outside of the low light of evening or morning. He almost doesn't look real; his eyes are wild, his hair everywhere, his hands shaking. "Yes," he says, shoving those trembling hands in his pockets. It doesn't make him look any more put together.

"Sure," Sylvain says, but he sure as hell doesn't believe him. He's sure the stranger knows that, but they can keep up a facade if he likes. "Do you want to come in?"

"Are your parents in?" he asks. Sylvain doesn't know how he knows his parents live there, because he never mentions them, but maybe it slipped out once. He doesn't know. Maybe he even saw them, once or twice; equally possible.

Either way, there's little point in thinking about it. "No, they're out," he says. They're usually out, which suits everyone just fine. "You can come in, no worries."

He mumbles something under his breath, and Sylvain cocks his head, but he doesn't repeat it. "Fine," he says. "If you want me to."

Sylvain chooses not to mention that he suggests it every time they meet, so the only thing that's changed is him. Instead, he keeps quiet, leading the stranger into his house once more. 

It's no less awkward than the first time; Sylvain tries to find things to do and make conversation. His sullen not-quite-friend stands or sits where he's directed to, and answers as shortly as possible. Sometimes he doesn't reply at all. Sometimes he just stares at the space beyond Sylvain's shoulder, doing nothing at all.

Sylvain should probably be scared of him, but he's not. Even though each constituent part of him is terrifying at worst (he carries a knife at all times) and unfriendly at best, put together he reminds Sylvain a little more of a disgruntled cat. He isn't exactly sure why.

This time, Sylvain is able to cook him a hot meal, and they sit at the table to eat it. Like the family Sylvain doesn't have. The stranger sits on the chair with his legs crossed, his eyes always flitting towards the windows and doors. He never meets Sylvain's eyes.

"Do you want to stay?" Sylvain asks. He seems more nervous than he ever does when they're outside.

He pauses. There's silence for a long, long time. The stranger lets his spoon rest against the table as he stares down. "Yes," he says. It's barely more than a whisper, but in the golden light of the rapidly advancing evening, it's everything.

Sylvain isn't sure what to say in reply to that, but given how little the man speaks he doesn't think he needs to say anything at all. Instead, they finish their meal in silence. Then they sit, still quiet, as the sounds of evening fade into the near-silence of night. Sylvain doesn't know why he doesn't move, doesn't even say a word. If he were a good host, he'd turn the TV on at the very least.

But he doesn't do any of those things, and his companion doesn't seem to mind. Sylvain's eyelids begin to droop by the time either of them break the no-longer silence.

"Antirrhinum," he says.

"Bless you?" Sylvain suggests.

"My name," he says with a scowl. "You can call me Antirrhinum."

"Oh." A weird name. A familiar name, but not for a person. "How about Rhinum? Anti whatever is a pretty wordy name."

"Fine." His body is tense, his limbs locked up in that way Sylvain is so used to seeing by now. But maybe there's something else too.

Or maybe Sylvain is just engaging in an exercise of optimistic thinking, just as countless professionals have told him to. Either way, it probably means something good.

Whatever 'good' means, it isn't enough to salvage whatever vulnerability Sylvain wishes could last beyond that night. Rhinum vanishes again at dawn, disappearing through the back door before Sylvain even has the chance to awaken. He doesn't know how he does it so quietly, so quickly, but he does.

And he doesn't come back down again. Sylvain goes out whenever he can - always with food - and calls up to the treehouse to see if he'll talk again. He knows he's there, most of the time, but he gets no response.

He doesn't understand why. He thought, after he drew a name out of him, that there was something between them. Maybe not something friendly, but at least something closer than before. Now, it seems more like the opposite; Rhinum is ignoring him. Maybe because of the strange circumstances that led them to share a night once more, maybe because of the silence. Maybe because of the name.

Either way, it hurts. It hurts more than a continual refusal to come inside, because at least he can understand that. It makes sense to be wary of a stranger whose motivations you don't know just inviting you into his house. But avoiding someone entirely just after you start to get close... Sylvain doesn't understand Rhinum.

In all honesty, Rhinum doesn't make an ounce of sense. He lives in a treehouse in the garden of a stranger, but refuses to interact with anyone most of the time. He sometimes leaves during the day, sometimes at night, but refuses to say what he does. He's able to eat and drink without Sylvain's aid, but he’s worried about food. He has nowhere to go, seemingly.

So why won't he just accept some damn help? Sylvain is right there. He'd give anything to see Rhinum safe, though he doesn't quite understand why. He wants to think it's just common decency and a bit of empathy, but he's never been the best at that kind of thing.

Maybe that's why Rhinum doesn't trust him. Sylvain doesn't know what else he wants from him, but Rhinum must be able to tell. Or maybe he can't, and there's some other reason why Sylvain no longer gets to speak to him. Either way, it sucks. Actually getting to talk to someone finally helped Sylvain feel like he was alive again.

* * *

Autumn afternoons feel like a perpetual sunset, and Sylvain knows he's running out of time. Autumn moves into winter, and with winter comes snow, and cold, and many, many things that Rhinum should not face alone in the shitty little treehouse in the unnecessarily large garden of their unnecessarily large house.

"Rhinum!" he calls. He calls pretty much every day, now, and Rhinum hasn't come down yet. Sylvain doesn't know why he's still trying, really; it's been weeks. "I brought food."

The grass is usually damp these days, and the sun doesn't provide much warmth, but Sylvain sits down anyway. It isn't like he has anything else to do, and the thought of Rhinum shivering up there on his own makes something ache within him.

He waits for a while. He waits as early afternoon falls into late dusk, and the slight chill becomes something bitter, sinking into his bones as he sits there. Maybe if he stays for a really long time, he'll just sink into the grass. His parents wouldn't notice. Rhinum might, if only because the annoyance would be gone.

Just as the sun dips below the horizon and the threatening grey of the clouds bears fruit, a face appears at the treehouse door. "You're still here," Rhinum says.

"Always," he says, and it sounds more like a croak than anything else. How long has he been here, really? "I still have food, if you want it."

"If you insist," he says. He hops down and lands on the grass next to Sylvain. There's something that's almost a smile on his face, and some of the tension in Sylvain's chest eases.

But not all of it. Because in the next moment, the wind blows, and the pair of them shiver in unison. And that reminds Sylvain of what's at stake here. He hands Rhinum the food, leans back, and takes a deep breath. "What are you going to do in the future?" he asks.

Rhinum shrugs and puts more food in his mouth. Sylvain waits for his answer. "I was fine before, I'll be fine now."

But what about the cold? The rain? He doesn't, in truth, know how long Rhinum has been doing this. But it can't be so long that he's managed a winter on his own already. Especially not in a treehouse. "What about the last time you came inside?"

They didn't say it at the time, but the pair of them both knew it meant something. Sure, Sylvain didn't know what, but he knew it was something. "It doesn't mean anything," Rhinum grumbles. "Nothing at all."

"Please?" he asks, and he hates the note of desperation that creeps into his voice. He shouldn't feel like this towards a near stranger, but he does. He doesn't want this to go sour, and most of all he wants Rhinum to make it. To where, he doesn't know, but somewhere.

Somewhere further than Sylvain is able to go himself. But Rhinum doesn't say a word, and he has to try again. "I'm just... worried about you," he admits.

Rhinum scoffs. "Yeah," he says. "I've heard that one a lot."

"Me too," Sylvain says. It feels as if something heavy and wrong has settled on his chest as he speaks. He never talks about this. "And I mean it, alright?"

Rhinum doesn't look him in the eye; he never does. He just shrugs, hunching in on himself further. He's still wearing the same clothes as when Sylvain met him, but they look significantly worse for wear now. "Sure you do," he says. "Doesn't change anything."

"It never does." He tries to conceal a bitter laugh, but he doesn't think he manages. Rhinum looks at him with an unfathomable expression, and then stands.

"Tomorrow," he says. "After nightfall. You can come up the tree, and we can talk again."

Sylvain knows that, really, he shouldn't go. He knows what happened last time he went up that tree (anger, hot and cold, sharp pain, fear, darkness), and he knows that Rhinum is an almost complete stranger who carries a knife at all times.

He knows these things, but he also knows that Rhinum does a little flourish when he lands on the ground, like he's always pleased he made it without incident. He knows that Rhinum smiles, just a little, when Sylvain makes a joke. He knows that Rhinum has fears, even if he won't talk about them.

He knows he wants to hear what Rhinum has to say. So the next day, when the moon is high in the cold night sky, he goes out to the treehouse.

"You came," he says, clearly surprised. Sylvain can't help but wonder what he expected - he's been nothing but willing (nothing but  _ pushy)  _ all this time. "I suppose I owe you a piece of the truth."

"You don't," Sylvain says, "but I'd like to hear it anyway, if you're willing to tell me."

It's dark in the treehouse; the leaves, still clinging stubbornly to the tree, block out any of the moonlight. Rhinum lives like this, somehow. He can't see Rhinum's face when he replies. "I'm on the run, so to speak," he explains. "Nowhere to go. Not really, anyway. But I can do this. I know I can." He murmurs something else, something that sounds like 'have to', but it's not meant to be heard and it's not Sylvain's place to ask.

Instead, Sylvain wants to ask what he's doing that he knows he can achieve. It doesn't  _ seem  _ like Rhinum is doing anything, at least not anything in particular. He's never told Sylvain about an aim or a desire. But still, he doesn't open his mouth. It's not like he's doing anything with his life, so who is he to judge Rhinum's?

"Sylvain?" Rhinum asks. He hasn't said anything.

Honestly, he isn't really sure why so much secrecy was needed to tell this, why Rhinum called him here in the middle of the night to tell him something Sylvain could have put together by guesswork weeks ago. "Okay," he says, instead of asking one of the endless questions. "Okay, that doesn't bother me. So my offer stands. You can come in. I'm here to help."

Sylvain has long since learned that Rhinum struggles with... something. Speaking, probably. Emotions, maybe. Because the only thing that fills this gap between words is Rhinum attempting to steady his breathing. "Sure," he says. "Why not?"

Sylvain moves to stand, to go towards the exit of the treehouse. Rhinum still doesn't move. His breathing quickens. "My name isn't really Antirrhinum," he says. "It's Felix."

Sylvain smiles. He doesn't know if Felix can see it, or what it even means, but it's there. "Okay," he says. He feels a little bit like a broken record by this point. But it doesn't feel like there's much else to say. He leaves the treehouse, and this time there aren't hard hands on his back. Instead, only slow, steady footsteps and the quiet, familiar sound of Felix's breathing.

"Are you here to stay this time?" he asks. He feels almost bad asking about it, but he's familiar enough with waking up to an empty room at this point that he just wants to know.

"For as long as I feel like it," Felix answers. Sylvain's heart sinks. "I'll see how I feel tomorrow."

Sylvain nods, trying to disguise his disappointment. He feels silly, placing so much importance on whether Felix stays or goes. But they're not strangers anymore, or at least he'd like to think they're not. Instead of dwelling on it, he talks. He talks, and he talks, even later into the night. He tells Felix about absolutely nothing, but his throat dries out from all the talking.

He doesn't talk much when Felix isn't around. It's nice to let it out.

Eventually, they head to bed. Sylvain is already in the space between waking and sleeping when they do, but he thinks he offers Felix the chance to sleep in the bed. Whether or not he does, Felix opts for the floor, and Sylvain drifts away hoping only that Felix will still be there when he has the energy to keep his eyes open once more.

It must be the early hours of the morning when he wakes again. They went to sleep late, and the dawn is yet to break, so he can only have been asleep for a handful of hours when Felix makes a sound.

Sylvain feels frozen on the spot. That sound was fear. A whimper released into the darkness, clearly not meant for another's ears. Felix turns to the side, and then back again. His eyes are screwed tightly shut; there's no way he's awake. The Felix Sylvain knows wouldn't make this kind of noise if he was awake.

"Sylvain..." It's a whisper, a plea. Full of pain and something Sylvain can't process through his sleep-fogged mind. He's heard enough, though. He rolls out of bed and crosses the short, dark distance to place a hand on Felix's shoulder.

Felix cries out again, wordless this time. Then his eyes snap to Sylvain's in the darkness, bright with fear and tears, and he mumbles something that sounds like a thank you.

Sylvain doesn't know if Felix gets any more rest; he knows he doesn't. But what he does know is that, when dawn breaks, Felix is still there, and he feels like something important has changed.

He doesn't leave, either. Sylvain mentions, at some point, that his parents will be gone for a while. He doesn't know if that's really the case, but they'll tell him if they plan on returning any time soon. Given how temporary Felix's visits have been in the past, Sylvain expects him to drift in and out between the house and the treehouse and wherever else he goes, but he... doesn't.

He stays. Sylvain wakes and finds Felix on his floor. Sometimes they talk, sometimes they don't. Felix tells him a little more about himself: the kind of TV he used to watch before he left wherever he lived before (action shows, animated films, a bunch of old sci-fi shows Sylvain hasn't heard of), the food he likes (spicy, meaty, never anything green and  _ nothing  _ too close to its use by date), and the kinds of things he studied at school before everything went wrong.

He doesn't say what went wrong. Sylvain doesn't either, and neither of them ask. But there's a shared understanding, he supposes, a knowledge that something is the same between them.

And then Sylvain goes too far. He knew, really, that it was always going to happen if Felix stuck around for too long, and happen it does. He... grows to like Felix. The feeling goes far beyond a concern for his health or a desire to see him not freezing out in the cold; Felix is funny, and good to talk to. Being around him makes him almost happy.

Being around Felix makes Sylvain feel alive in a way he hasn't felt for a long time, and that feels wonderful and terrible in equal measure. Because he's fallen maybe just a little in love, and that can never end well. He'll fuck  _ that  _ particular can of worms up no matter what he tries, so for now... for now, all he can do is focus on keeping his new friend safe and happy. That's all he can do.

* * *

Felix sticking around is good in some ways, because it gives him company and maybe love warms a lot of things he never realised froze over in the first place. But in other ways, Felix sticking around is very, very bad. It dredges up things Sylvain doesn't want to think about.

"Where do your family actually go?" Felix asks. It must have been weeks since he's moved in at this point, and he's shown no signs of vanishing - much as Sylvain's parents have shown no sign of appearing.

"I don't know," he admits. They don't tell him. "I don't need to know, but they'll tell me when they're coming back."

Felix nods, but a frown creases a face. It reminds him of half-whispered discussions he wasn't meant to hear. "Parents are strange."

"Yeah."

It's a conversation that feels like more than it is, but Sylvain still doesn't know exactly what. Why does Felix want to know about his parents? Why doesn't  _ he  _ want to know? It asks more than it answers, and the questions stretch on between them.

Time does, too. More weeks pass, and Felix shows no sign of moving on. It worries him - Felix shouldn't be tied to this place. If Sylvain has managed to curse him to remain here just like he does, he doesn't think he'll be able to forgive himself. "Are you going to do something else at some point?" he asks. The question sticks in his throat a little; he doesn't want Felix to move on. But he doesn't want him to stay either.

"What would I do?" Felix asks. There's an achingly familiar despair to his voice. "Everything I ever wanted for my life feels very far away now. So what even is there to move on to?" He looks away, and it's only then that Sylvain realises they were making eye contact at all. "There's nothing."

It's all Sylvain can do to hold himself back from saying 'mood'. He manages, though. "Sometimes I feel the same," he says.

"Probably not in the same way," Felix says, and he's probably right. "What about you? Is there anything you want to go on to?"

"My life is stuck in a perpetual twilight," he admits. "There's no future. Sometimes, I feel like there's no past."

"Sometimes I think you just need to go to therapy," Felix says. Sylvain snorts, because he's right, and he's tried. "I guess I'm one to talk, though. You know I've been lying to you this whole time?"

Sylvain isn't really surprised. Why  _ would  _ Felix trust him? "I don't care if you did."

"Alright." The silence stretches on between them. "Why don't you feel like you have a past?"

"I'm twenty four," he explains. "I went to school when I was young. I have a family. I did and said stupid things, I got into accidents and..." He gestures at the air. Why won't the sunset just  _ fade?  _ "Now I'm here. The friends I had as a child aren't. My brother isn't. Most of the time, my family isn't. I went to college, didn't finish it. Or maybe I didn't go to college, and I pulled all the memories from some sad story or film. Maybe my childhood friends didn't exist either, maybe I didn't go to school with them. I don't know."

Felix doesn't often touch him, but he does now. There's a warm hand on his shoulder, pushing down, down. It's solid. Real. The melted sunset in Felix's eyes is real. "They exist," he says. "Maybe they're not around anymore, but that doesn't mean they were never here at all." His hand shifts to Sylvain's back, rubbing slow circles into the surface of his shitty, too-warm hoodie. "Maybe they're just shit friends."

Sylvain can't help but laugh at that. "Maybe," he says. His laughing grows louder, longer. His chest feels like it's going to split in two with the force of it.

Felix's hand leaves his back, his eyes leave his view. The sunset has shifted into night, and Sylvain missed it.

Felix returns with a handkerchief, and it's only then that Sylvain realises he's crying. Felix dabs at his eyes, and Sylvain tries to bat the handkerchief away. Makes an attempt at doing it himself, before realising that everything is shaking too much and he probably can't even grip it at this point.

He lets Felix do it. For all his rough words and even rougher edges, he's gentle now. He wipes the tears away, smooths back his hair, and leaves a solid arm around Sylvain's shoulders while he works out how to put himself back together again.

Eventually, his eyelids droop from more than the force of his sobbing, and Felix guides him up the stairs, a gentle hand still on his back. He doesn't know why he bothers, but Sylvain isn't going to complain. Once he's settled in bed, Felix turns. Before he reaches the light switch, he pauses. "Can I sleep with you, Sylvain?"

The world is still for a moment. Sylvain tries to breathe and convince himself that those softly spoken words were just his imagination, but after that evening everything feels  _ too  _ real. He knows what Felix said.

So Sylvain laughs, because the alternative is to cry again from something that isn't pent up history and abandonment and  _ definitely  _ isn't sadness. He doesn't want Felix to see that again. "I thought you said you weren't going to give me anything in return." He goes for a wink. Felix rolls his eyes.

"Not like that, asshole," he says, shoving Sylvain's shoulder with no small amount of force. Ouch. "I thought you might like the company. And it's not like I have anywhere else to be."

He looks away as he speaks, but even in the low light of the room, Sylvain can tell he's blushing. He doesn't think this is a good idea, not really - if this goes too far, he'll fuck it up. He'll hurt Felix, and push him away just like everything he's ever loved. He knows that, deep in his bones.

But still... "Sure," he says. "There's room for two."

So Felix sleeps curled around Sylvain that night, and it's the best Sylvain has slept in years.

It's awkward when they wake, though. Felix shuffles around the bedroom, then the living room, then the kitchen, with words on the edge of his lips that he clearly can't bring himself to say.

"Hey, Felix?" Sylvain asks, and he knows that talking about this is a bad idea. Talking about feelings is always a bad idea, but last night happened and maybe the end of it wasn't completely awful, so he needs to consider the possibility that this is something he should do more often.

"Mmm?" Felix says. He looks so on edge, even when the sound that leaves his mouth is half relaxed. Like it slipped out without thinking, even though Felix does  _ everything  _ deliberately.

"Maybe we should have a conversation," he says.

Felix nods. "I care about you," he says, and the force of the words he's kept locked up inside all morning come out with a rush that hits Sylvain right in the chest. It hurts, but not entirely in a bad way. "Maybe more than I care about myself."

"About that," Sylvain says, trying not to laugh. It wheezes out of him anyway, ugly and awful. "Me too."

"Let me finish," Felix says firmly. "I care about you more than myself because I have nowhere to go. My life is going nowhere. I ran away from home because I couldn't bear to face all the truths I had to discuss with my father, and I won't let the same happen with you. So let me speak, because this needs to be said."

Sylvain nods. Felix opens his mouth and turns his life on its head. "I came to this place because I know you."

The world shatters. "What?" he asks. Felix knows him. Felix... Felix  _ knows  _ him, knows something about who he was before everything stuttered to a stop.

The world starts moving again. Sylvain looks into Felix's eyes, all sunrise and stormy skies, and he remembers.

When Sylvain was a child, he had a much brighter horizon. He also had parents who didn't care for their children, and a shitty older brother who tugged at everything he could reach.

And he had friends. Three friends, but one in particular.

They used to sit in the garden and weave the daisies together, hour after hour after hour. They couldn't have done only that - there weren't enough flowers in the garden, nor enough focus in a child's day, but that's what Sylvain remembers. He remembers linked hands from sunrise to sunset, tears wiped away from a puffy face.

From eyes, all sunrise and stormy skies.

"Felix," he says. Felix nods. "I know what antirrhinum is."

Felix smiles, bright and perfect. "It was stupid," he admits, and there's something thick in his voice. "Fucking pretentious, too."

"Maybe a little," he agrees. When they were younger, his mother used to fill the garden with all kinds of plants. One summer, Sylvain had a book of flowers, and his father insisted that if he was going to read it, he'd learn all the scientific names. Felix tested him on them, and antirrhinum was always his favourite.

Snapdragons, full of concealment. Lies, maybe, if you aren't charitable. Sylvain likes to think he is.

His hands find Felix's in the space between them, now so much smaller than before. "Why didn't you say? I wouldn't have- it would have been nice to know."

"I was scared," he admits. Sylvain squeezes his hand. "I knew that if I was scared I shouldn't have come in the first place. Who was I, to waltz straight back into your life like nothing had changed? But then you... didn't recognise me. And I was scared."

He nods. He can't exactly blame him - even now, Felix's eyes fog up with unshed tears. They don't spill over, not yet, but Sylvain knows the feeling of things no one is prepared to say. Maybe not in quite the same way, but he knows it nonetheless. "Well, I'm glad you're back."

It sounds lame, for lack of a better word. The words can't quite capture what it means to see him again. Proof of his past, proof that he's worth returning to, somehow. But he doesn't think there are any words that could mean all those things; at least, not words that could leave his mouth.

Felix looks up, over towards the window. It's no longer sunrise, but the dampness of morning still lies heavy in the grass beyond. It still feels like a beginning when he leans in, all apprehension and barely constrained desire.

Sylvain meets him in the middle. Their hands stay joined between them, and it's clumsy and awkward, tempered by tangled feelings and years of inexperience and experience all jumbled into one. Sylvain doesn't quite feel like a person on his own, and maybe Felix doesn't either. Together, they're more than one, not quite two halves slotted into a whole but still more complete in tandem than apart.

"I love you," he says when he pulls away, and it's the truest thing he's ever spoken.

"I love you," Felix echoes, but it's not an echo. It's an affirmation, an existence. A reason for being, a promise, a world waiting for the pair of them to face with renewed courage.

The endless twilight fades with the dawn, and a new life begins.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed, I really appreciate a comment. I also have a twitter over @samariumwriting where I talk about writing (and other things) quite a lot!
> 
> The themes for this piece as per the bakeoff and how they manifest are:  
> Sunrise/sunset - looooots of sunset/sunrise imagery, plus a lot of scenes taking place at that time (also the title of the fic, which comes from the song Sunrise Sunset from Fiddler on the Roof)  
> Courage - Felix's courage to live as he wants to, as well as his courage in-  
> Trust - trusting Sylvain with the truth  
> Flowers - Felix's fake name  
> Reunion - the fact that they came back together after a long period apart
> 
> Also if you have any questions about background for the characters/setting, please ask, bc they're in my brain!! Just not on the page, for the sake of conciseness


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